Early February in a Glass City - Sylvia Woolner

Early February in a Glass City

Winter lands softly on your forehead Whispering wishes under turtleneck sweaters as eyelashes fall from your cheek The scrape of wool scarves against polyester The creak of old handles as warm hands push hard against cold metal A rhythm of swallows and sighs accompany a hot morning coffee Small unprepared boots hitting slush, snow and ice Contained cyclones within city boulevards Hatless pedestrians hurrying towards open doors The neon vibrancy of store signs reverberating down sacrilegious streets Exits closing with quiet precision Calls to distant voices on familiar topics Pages turned on books unread and over worn Red and black ink dexterously hitting a page aggressive to catch up Alarms repeating with ever increasing frequency Discussions had outside of thin walls Faint articulations of fear and frustration Hopeless knocks hitting an empty room Kettles boiling three times over without water being poured Zippers caught on sweaters Ripping, tearing followed by a curse Humbled repetitions of similar verses with divergent meanings Running on linoleum Water feeing into a public sink Breath caught in a tiny throat Words too quickly uttered to be undone Phrases forgotten by novel friends Broken timers and harsh chalk board scribbles One squeaking boot against a grey speckled pavement Paper being cut Garbage landing at the bottom of a chute Over animated parties – bodies, beer, and music crashing into chaos Lighters switched on Lonely porches and the rain Cars speeding down a one-way street A mop wheeled out onto an empty stage

Cashboxes closed Hands gripping hair Squirrels bristling in the bare boned bushes Coins and cash tossed out onto a waxy bar table Slurred shouts of glee and mournful thoughts spat out into incoherent poetry Steamy warm dumplings cut into pieces with ineffcient forks Dishes breaking in wet hands Salt tracked onto ineffectual doormats Quotes repeated by seasoned friends Incorrect pronunciations cried out into coffee shops Plows preening ice into perfect pilings Heels hitting warped foorboards and muffed footsteps on a static carpet Sirens berating bare forsaken ears

and then discordant silence

my life is heard as a dissonant refrain.